


Turn The White Snow Red

by laetificat



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Jon Snow Comes Back Wrong, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 05:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19078312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laetificat/pseuds/laetificat
Summary: The gladness he should have felt did not come. The warmth of seeing someone beloved, and much missed, did not arrive. Instead, a tendril of fear crept up his spine, cowardly and cold.





	Turn The White Snow Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scorpiod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/gifts).



Chill fog blanketed the rough skin of the hillside, smoothing it to grey stillness in the faint light of dawn. The sounds of men and beasts came blunted to Robb’s ears, queerly muffled and echoed in the same instant, so one moment it seemed he stood alone in a white sea and the next in the midst of a great host. The reality, of course, was neither. They were a small band now, barely worth the title of an army, large enough to send crofters and village folk scrambling for cover when they rode past. 

They had torched three fields of Lannister grain the day before. Their owner had begged for his life on his knees before Robb’s horse, his wife and small child huddled together in the yard of their smallholding.

Robb had taken the antique sword the farmer had offered him and spared them with a heavy warning. The sight of the man’s tears had been a bitter reminder of the price of this war. Robb was not a tyrant, to win this way, and did not relish it. 

He could not escape the smell of smoke on his clothes and hands, matter how much he washed them. 

Grey Wind whined at his side, perhaps sensing his thoughts, and pressed a cold nose into the palm of his hand. Robb scratched him behind the ears, sipping the strong black tea that had become his habit as he gazed out across the camp. He slept little, these days, and not to satisfaction. He had become used to the headaches and sour stomach, considering those, as well, the burden he had won for himself. 

The direwolf whined again, standing suddenly, his attention on the dark stand of trees. His shoulders were level with Robb’s hips, muscles bunched and powerful beneath his fur as he lowered his head and growled. 

“What’s wrong?” Robb dug his fingers into the thick fur of his wolf’s ruff, peering out into the gloom. Somewhere out in the camp a man laughed, but the fires near Robb’s tent were dew-wet and deserted. The growl rose and fell in Grey Wind’s throat. He took a stiff-legged step forward, eyes pinned on something moving in the wood.

“Who goes there?” Robb called, touching the hilt of the sword on his hip.

A shape resolved itself, white detaching from whiteness as if a piece of the fog moved alone. Another wolf, larger, red eyes like two spots of blood in the snow. 

“Ghost? Grey Wind, stop, it’s Ghost.” Robb fisted his hand in Grey Wind’s fur. The wolf halted as together they watched Ghost come towards them, picking his way down over the scree and brittle grass. 

“But why is he alone? Shouldn’t he be with --” The name faded in his mouth, unsaid, as another shadow stepped out from between the trees. Black and grey and ragged, a cloak pulled up and features hidden in the depths of the hood, but Robb knew, even before he reached up to pull the hood back, who was standing at the edge of his camp, hundreds of miles away from where he should be. 

The gladness he should have felt did not come. The warmth of seeing someone beloved, and much missed, did not arrive. Instead, a tendril of fear crept up his spine, cowardly and cold.

Ghost reached them, but did not go to Grey Wind and greet him in brotherhood. Instead he stopped and sat, his eerie silence making him a statue that waited patiently for its master. Robb felt a shiver go through Grey Wind, his growl deepening. The wolf fell back a step, bumping against Robb’s legs, almost pushing him backwards. 

“Jon!” Robb attempted to put a note of normalcy in his voice, a commander demanding a report from an unexpected guest. “Jon, is that you? Why are you here?” 

Jon did not answer, but came down from the wood, following almost the same path as his wolf. He halted beside Ghost. Robb realised that the cloak he wore was stained, darker black on black, and torn. Grey Wind’s growl rose to a whine and ceased as he pressed against Robb’s legs, his ears pinned back flat to his broad skull. 

“Jon,” Robb said, and stepped forward around his wolf despite his fear, remembering sun-warm days of summer, wooden swords smooth in the palm and stolen kisses in the shadows behind the stables. His hand, raised, stopped mid-air as Jon pushed back the hood of his cloak. 

He was taller than Robb remembered, hewn down and stretched out with manhood, jaw squarer and shoulders wider. A scruff of beard shadowed his cheeks; his dark hair curled, unkempt, above his eyes. 

His eyes, that glowed blue-white. 

“Jon,” Robb gasped, the name coming from a part of him that still somehow functioned as the rest reeled in shock and grief. That same part noted that the camp around them had fallen silent. Nobody, he knew, would be coming to help. Still, he had to try. Had to ask. “Jon, what happened?”

The creature that was Jon Snow tilted its head, then took a step forward. Ghost moved in the same instant, not slowly, but in a surging leap that hit Grey Wind and carried him into the tent in a crash of fur and frenzied snarls. 

The wight reached out a single hand, black nailed, black palmed, frozen blood pooled forever under frozen skin. When it touched Robb’s cheek he steeled himself against flinching, though it was so cold. Scalding tears rose and broke despite his resolve, as behind him Grey Wind’s choked growls were suddenly cut off. 

“I carry a warning,” murmured the wight, and it was cruelty indeed that it sounded so like Jon. The same voice that had whispered promises and endearments in his ear, that had urged him on as they spent their boyish lust against each other. Now coming from the throat of a horror, an abomination that wore his face. 

“Give your warning, foul thing,” Robb managed. His hand gripped his sword hilt; he remembered the stories well enough to know it was futile, and he did not have fire. But he would not let go.

The wight leaned in close. It smelled like rotten ice and wet wool. It brushed its lips against Robb’s, a mockery of comfort. Something pressed against his ribs. Robb closed his eyes. 

“The warning is this, son of the North.” The point of the dagger pricked cold against his skin. 

“Do not stand in our way.”

 

When he finally opened his eyes over an hour later, Robb was alone.


End file.
